Fringe Benefits
by Meridian1
Summary: Sometimes, a girl just needs some action, and Abby's not willing to wait for it to come to her. (AbbyKing, pre-"Blade: Trinity")
1. She Wants, He Wants

Title: Fringe Benefits  
Author: Meridian  
Rating: Strong R in parts (for language, sexually explicit situations)  
Author's Notes: This is more or less a prequel for my story "End Game" as well as for the movie_Blade: Trinity_. The events in this story take place before the movie and help explain the sort of working-romantic relationship between Abigail Whistler and Hannibal King.

**Warning: There is an explicit sex scene in this story. Though not graphic, those who might be offended by descriptions of foreplay and sexual intercourse are advised not to read this story. There will be another warning for the chapter in which the most explicit scene occurs.**

* * *

Abigail Whistler had not decided the when, and the where was still very much up in the air, given how little privacy the average Nightstalker enjoyed, but she was certain of one thing: she was going to have sex with Hannibal King.

Her options were limited, her choices were poor. Unless she found time and a convenient excuse for what she did for a living, or wanted to spend her life in one-night-stands, dating outside the hideout crew was out of the question. Dex was ten years older, and he treated her like he treated Zoe. Hedges would have, at any time of the day or night, leapt at the opportunity, but she couldn't summon any sense of attraction for him, as much as she liked him as a friend. Sommerfield was the wrong gender.

That left King, probably the worst, poorest choice of the lot. He possessed none of Dex's quiet cool and suave sense of style; King thought his bull's-eye hunting shirt was the pinnacle of good taste. He lacked Hedges' adorable tendency to babble and get over excited easily. And he certainly couldn't touch Sommerfield's intelligence. No style, no sweetness, no smarts, King brought only attitude and his unique band of humor.

And, she admitted, in the spirit of being honest with herself, a body to die for.

That more than compensated for the rest, or would have to. Masturbation had its limits, and Abby had reached them. A few nights ago, she fantasized about their newest recruit, and it had been one of her better self-pleasuring sessions. It was easier to pretend you weren't alone when you imagined being touched by someone attractive and accessible-at least it wasn't_impossible_ that they were doing the work instead.

The unfortunate side-effect of that episode was a new awakening to the sexual appeal of her partner, which had yet to abate. Combined with a slight desperation to get well and properly laid, her attraction to Hannibal King was explosive. All that was left was the when-soon, if her body could stand waiting even that much longer-and the _where_.

This last was more problematic still than the constant battle to maintain a hold on her body's reaction to King. Not in the base because there wasn't really anywhere to do it that everyone else wouldn't immediately know what they were about. But where else? At a hunt site? Too dangerous, not to mention disgusting, ridiculous, and not a little disturbing. The idea of fucking King two feet from a dusted vamp or bleeding familiar put her right off the mood, so she thought about it as often as possible when the urge surfaced at inopportune moments. If it got bad enough, she'd pull a hotel room out of a hat and claim it was a stakeout.

Of course, that would mean convincing the others of a need for a stakeout, building a case for one, and, probably, doing actual work that would otherwise consume the time for consummation. Not for the first time, she wondered how her father had ever found the time to conceive her. It was harder to imagine a situation more likely to prevent one from getting laid than life among the Nightstalkers, though hanging with Blade must be close. For her father, it was a question of his partner not understanding the need; with her, it was more a problem of satisfying the desire with the minimum amount of exposure.

_I don't want this life for you, Abby_, her father had said when she first started. He hadn't been talking about sex, but those words were incredibly prescient on a number of matters. Still, a tough life didn't have to a celibate one, too. What would happen afterward, she could not predict. It would be difficult, but King would have to accept what he got, and that his time would be through, and they could each move on. It wouldn't be personal, and, in time, the awkwardness would fade. They could maybe even laugh together about it. That was the other thing King had in his favor; if nothing else, he could laugh at himself. Sometimes, she envied him that.

* * *

Hannibal King first became aware that the out-of-his-league Abigail Whistler was perhaps sidling into his range some time around their third hunt together. Per their usual, he ended up taking more blows than she, dusting fewer vamps, and generally winding up the sorer for the outing. Coming in second to a girl should have been a serious kick in the balls, but not when it was a woman like Abby. Those well-tuned instincts he never listened to, the ones that told him which was the most troublesome woman in a room and told him to stay away, were screaming about Whistler. She kicked ass better than he did, more reliably, with less damage. When they sparred, he never pulled punches because she was quicker and he would lose in about ten seconds if he didn't use his strength advantage over her. He tired slower, she dodged better. A better combination for some dynamite sex had yet, in his opinion, to ever grace this earth. 

She was, in short, a walking, not-often-talking wonder of a woman. She also thought he was scum or as close to it as she could tolerate having as a near-constant companion and partner. It was a deadly combination, and he fell for it every time.

Most men preferred a challenge; he preferred trouble. Having sex with Abby would be, guaranteed, about as troublesome as he could possibly hope for. The only thing that might have been messier would have been sex with Sommerfield, which he hadn't ruled out either. She had a sense of humor, at least. That was pretty sexy, but the two of them had a sort of understanding. They as a couple made a kind of sense, and his life was nothing if not a study of nonsense. Him and Sommerfield made one happy family, seeing as Zoe was the only one who truly appreciated his jokes out of the entire crew.

Him and Abby, though, that was disaster in the making, and he could not wait. And, unless his senses were deceiving him, she was coming around to the idea. Probably not from the angle he was, and she would _definitely_ ditch him right after, pretend it had never happened, but that was kind of sexy, too, and it made the itch worse, not better. A beautiful woman, with a body that did not quit, especially when being used as the weapon it was, was going to use him for sex and leave him behind. _And he could not wait_.

But he had to. Part of his finely tuned repertoire for picking up girls always consisted of playing dumb, letting them come as much to him as he was drawn to them. If the woman believed she was controlling him, was the dominant, things often got farther, lasted longer, and were more enjoyable. He had no problem with that. It made them believe he was the trapped one, rather than the other way around.

So, Abby had to come to him. She had to broach the subject seriously, as opposed to his near-constant, semi-sincere chatter about it. That was another trick of the trade-express attraction as a joke, as candidly as possible, and the woman always assumed it wasn't for real. It put her at ease, and a comfortable woman was open to suggestion. He didn't know what had finally planted the suggestion in Abby's mind, but he wasn't going to lose this chance.

The only question was _where_?


	2. Stakeout

_Fringe Benefits_

Author's Note: My apologies to those who came across this story when it was uploaded without the chapter feature. For one, I had not finished editing the later chapters, and, two, the explicit part was included with only my initial warning. I really do try my hardest to give ample notice about these things in keeping both with this website's policies and my own. Those of you who read the story in its entirety, I apologizeif theexplicit scenes offended you; they were included in the first chapter as a formatting/uploading error. There will be a warning on future chapters with mature content, and all explicit material will be kept in a chapter of its own. The rest of the story will appear in installments as soon as editing/betaing is finished.

* * *

Two nights after coming to her decision, Abby lucked into a perfect solution to her problem. They actually _did_ need to do a stakeout session, immediately after which they ought to have the information needed to rout a clutch of familiars that had been working over the dock area south of the base. It wasn't always a good idea to kill familiars in huge numbers; it was hard enough get away with killing the vampires, let alone killing people who left behind whole corpses for ever-diligent criminologists to examine. However, they had a solid lead about this group, and any information the familiars might have about the Nightstalker base needed to be recovered and destroyed. 

So, while the warehouse loft they occupied for the sting did not qualify as even a one-star hotel, it suited her purposes well enough. In her gear bag, at the bottom, she'd tossed in a flannel sheet from the laundry. It contained her collection of specialty arrowheads, which she had removed, spreading the sheet wide on the dusty floor. The location was just repulsive enough to discourage her, she hoped, from seeking out future trysts. Dust bunnies, grime-coated windows, the whole nine yards. The association with the warehouse ought to be enough to kill her libido forever after. If she could still want to fuck King after having him in this place, something was wrong with her.

"What's our status?" She asked King, who was at the window with the night-vision goggles.

"They're in," he said, referring to the white aluminum shack the familiars were meeting in tonight.

"All of them?"

"I count seven in, two out." That was all, then. "Been in there five minutes now."

"We move in five."

"We could move faster if someone hadn't brought their stuff in a picnic blanket." He cast a pointed glare at her arrowheads. Compared to his compact twin pistols, strapped securely to his thighs, her weapons were a good deal more bulky.

"I'm your backup. I want _my_ range weapon, King, not yours." His range weapon of choice was the giant triple-barrel monstrosity Hedges had worked out of some old army rifle. The thing spat stakes and UV bullets of a caliber large enough to make head-sized holes in inch-thick steel. It lacked finesse, like King, and he loved it.

"Heat-seekers?" He walked over to the sheet and picked up an arrowhead.

"Among others," she nodded, affixing several of each kind to arrow shafts. They weren't proper heat-seekers, as arrows lacked individual propulsion mechanisms. The tips just kept burrowing forward until the small motor on them was exhausted or they hit something warm or moving, then they detonated. The aiming, however, was still up to her. Her other favorite was a round tip with collapsible flanges; they made a nice circular hole where they hit, but the thin, razor sharp flanges flicked out when the arrow drove home, tearing thin slices through tissue on either side of the main wound. It was often missed when the person was being treated, which meant the person hit--usually someone they didn't want to survive--didn't.

"I'm going," King said after surveying her gearing up. She nodded--she was ready. King made for the stairs in an easy, almost lazy lope, flicking a two-finger salute at her before he disappeared. She crossed to the window, using a cloth to open one single pane inwards. No trail. So far, they hadn't needed to touch anything in the room other what they disturbed in the dust with their feet. Before they left, they'd sweep up after themselves.

And, sometime before that, she'd finally satisfy her desires on King.

* * *

King rounded the outside of the tinny shack from the north side. From there, Abby had a clear view of him in the near-dark--the closest dock lamp lightbulb having been shot out upon their arrival. The shack had one window on that side, and, last he saw from the warehouse, two men on guard at the entrance around the corner. There were seven inside, two out, and the more he could coax out, the better. 

He waited, listening carefully. In the gleam of stars, he saw the warehouse, and nodded in its direction. Not one second later, a whistling thunk whipped by the east entrance. He dove under the window, rolling up onto his feet, exposed to the one guard remaining. The man gaped at him, a cigarette lighter with flame burning still held out; the guard Abby dropped had a lit cigarette not two feet from his mouth, open in shock. King fired one round into the middle of the guard's forehead.

While quieter than a normal gun, his electronic pistol wasn't the whisper-quiet of a silenced firearm, so he ducked back to the north side, pulling a flash grenade from his belt. He counted to two before tossing it through the window, not stopping till he rounded the corner to the west side. Counting before throwing meant the flash came sooner, too soon for people inside to catch it and expel it or shield their eyes. He reached the southwest corner in time to close his eyes against the flash.

Eyes still shut, he moved around to the south side, opening them again only after being certain the flash was past, reaching the window on the opposite side from where he'd tossed the grenade. It was just an extra precaution, throwing the enemy off balance, misdirecting them so they believed the attack came from the north while he struck from the south. Predictably, when he peered in the window, half of the seven inside were blinking away blindness, and the other half were firing at the north window.

King dropped two in as many seconds with as many shots, one through the back of the head and another high in the chest, before the remaining five realized where the shots were coming from. Running, he dodged low as bullets ripped through the paper-thin aluminum walls. He felt one clip him near the forehead, but a finger placed to the wound came away with only a little blood--it wasn't serious. The shots continued to break through the south wall at random as he moved around again to the north end. He heard the tell-tale whistling of arrows as he appeared back in his original position.

The doors on the east end were open, and the two remaining familiars from the little pow-wow stumbled over the bodies of the men who had been standing guard and the three who had reached the doors before them. Another arrow shot by, but it scratched and broke against the pavement. The two recovered, jumping to their feet and shooting wildly out in front of them, nary a bullet even approaching Abby's direction. When their shots went from loud roars to empty clicks, he pounced.

One man had time for a quick, "Shit on me," before King shot him in the thigh. The other just ran and fell hard with a bullet in his lower back. Neither shot fatal, only to wound, as they planned. He looked towards the warehouse, holding two fingers to his eyes, code for _keep me covered_, as he replaced his pistol and strode towards the first survivor.

The man was groaning, trying in vain to stop the bleeding in his leg. King ignored him and walked past, catching up with the one he'd shot in the back. To his credit, the man was struggling and ripping out nails on the concrete trying to pull himself to safety using only his arms. His legs were dead weight--a spinal injury. He'd have to brag about that to Whistler. Not bad for the new guy.

"Where are you going, chief?" King kicked the man sharply in the ribs, flipping him over onto his back.

"Oh, please! _Please_, don't kill me!"

"I'm going to be honest with you. I'm going to kill you."

"Oh _please, please!_" The man begged, cowering and bringing his hands up to claw at King's pants. He kicked the man away.

"If you tell me what I want to know, I might call you an ambulance."

"What? _What_? What do you want?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Jesus, fuck, we were just looking for this guy."

"What guy?"

"I don't know! I swear I don't!"

"I need a name," King frowned, crossing his arms. "Can't help you find your guy if I don't have a name."

The man tried to roll onto his stomach again. King stopped him with a boot to the gut. "_Who_are you!?"

"Fair's fair. You give me a name, I give you a name. And, since I'm so generous, I get you help."

"I don't _know_!" The familiar gasped, clawing at the foot King moved to his chest to keep him still. He applied a bit of pressure to the outside, quick and sudden, until there was a snap and one rib gave where it ought not to have done. "_Fuck! Fuck, okay!_" The man wailed. "We're...supposed to, supposed to find this guy...ran out."

"What, are you the mafia?" King asked, skeptical but concerned. Guy who ran out? Another familiar looking to break out? A possible ally? Not important at present. "Who?"

"Name's," the familiar struggled, "name's King. _Please_, please!"

_Ahh_, shouldn't have gotten his hopes up. "Thanks," King smiled, removing his pistol from his holster. "How do you know he's here?"

"Don't..._don't_..." the familiar begged, his eyes on the business end of the pistol. He began to cry, sobs breaking up his words. "Someone...saw...someone like...looked like..."

"Okay, okay, I don't need my life story," King waved him off. He cocked his weapon.

The familiar's eyes went wide. "You-" he got out before King clipped him. The look of surprise and alarm remained as the body twitched under his searching hands. He located the glyph on the guy's left wrist. It was Danica's. As he walked back to the familiar with the lame leg, he considered this turn of events. Apparently, his ex was still a bit bitter over their breakup.

The other familiar, it turned out, had met with a slight case of stupidity and caught Whistler's cure for it through the throat. Out of mercy and nothing more, he put one round into the guy's forehead and checked him for a glyph. Another one of Danica's boys down. Ooh, she was going to be pissed. He poked his head into the shack and did a visual sweep. A table, a chair, and someone folded up near them, corpses of the other familiars. Nothing out of the ordinary. He moved through the shack, searching each familiar for a phone. None were carrying. It was a surprise, but a good one--that meant no one had called in anything to the bosses yet. Must have assumed nine guys were enough to deal with anyone or thing.

The bad surprise came at the end when he took a look at the poor schmuck the familiars had been tapping for information. To say the body had been worked over would be a gross understatement. He recognized it as the clerk at Starbucks, of all people.

"Rest in peace kid, and keep that latte ready for me whenever I get to where you are." King pulled loose another couple of grenades, explosive ones this time, twisted one, setting the timer for two hours. Enough time to get out of the area, back to the hideout. He did not close the door. There could be no traces left.


	3. Not Playing Fair

_Fringe Benefits_

Author's Notes: This scene precedes the infamous one I've been warning about for the past couple of chapters. If you are squeamish about explicit sexual writing, you can skip the next chapter and move onto chapter five without missing any plot, I promise. For those of you interested in the details, read in sequence for the full story.

* * *

Abby replaced her quiver and collapsed her bow to fit in the gear bag, finishing just as King climbed the stairs. 

"You don't play fair, Whistler."

"What do you mean?" She fiddled with the placement of her weapons, holding her hand out for his. He handed them to her, folding his arms over his chest and waiting for her to zip up the bag before speaking.

"That last one doesn't count, you know."

"Don't know what you're talking about, King," she said, sitting back on the flannel sheet.

"I had him, first. That's five for me, four for you."

"Let's call it a draw," she shrugged it off. "What do they know?"

"They know the kid who gets my coffee."

She assessed the threat risk. King lived for his daily injection of caffeine, and, whenever he could, he stopped by a Starbucks en route from a hunt. There was one in particular he liked because the guy behind the corner had gotten his ass handed to him when he'd gotten fresh with her. And now that coffee-jockey was dead. But they were okay, and that had to come first. They were safe. The unfortunate familiars' interrogation probably had not gotten back to their bosses.

"Danica," she said, and King nodded. So, she was still looking for King. After six months, still looking.

"We should get out of here. We have two hours."

Abby shook her head. "We won't need that long."

King regarded her for a long moment. "Won't we?" He asked, raising one eyebrow.

Inhaling a resolute breath, Abby stood, took three confidant steps towards him, invading his personal space with the last one such that he dropped his arms to his sides. In another second, without hesitating, she leaned up and caught him dipping his head down. Their mouths met and locked, knowing and certain, not at all stilted or hasty. One of her hands went to his neck to drag herself up and him farther down; one of his grabbed her waist, tugging her bodily against him. Her other hand dug clawed fingers into the arm at her waist, his twined into her hair.

Abby stepped onto his shoes, pressing down on his toes. Taking the hint, King walked them both towards the flannel sheet. Here, they twisted and tussled, Abby locking her leg around behind his and jerking his knees outward. He fell, they fell, and she maneuvered him under her. Surprisingly, he did not protest when they broke apart for air, but, instead, moved his hand from her waist to her ass, scooting her up until she straddled his crotch.

"How did you know?" She growled as she propped herself up over him on her elbows.

"Whistler, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but I gotta tell you something." He brushed her hair, curtained around them both, off his face.

"What's that?" She breathed, closing in on him.

"You're not very subtle."

That did it. She pressed her lips to his and bit down hard when his tongue snaked out to touch hers. He yelped, his whole body jerking against hers, pulling both of them up until she perched over his lap.

He massaged his tongue between his lips. "That was uncalled for."

"Put your mouth to better use than insulting me," she hissed, leaning forward to kiss him again. King ducked away from her attempt.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"What?"

"You think I'm going to let you do that again?"

She planted both hands on her hips, relaxing back against his bent knees. "So, what, are we not going to do this?"

"Have sex?"

"Yes."

King shook his head vigorously. "No, we definitely _are_."

"So," she moved back in, and he darted away again. "What? You're not going to kiss me?"

"If it means I'll still be able to talk after, yeah."

Interesting, Abby had to admit. "Ever think you talk too much?"

"Sure," King nodded, "Like right now. So, stop arguing with me, Whistler, and let's do this." She hesitated as he pulled her closer, unsure of his aim. He seemed to be about to kiss her, but at the last second kissed the corner of her mouth then trailed towards her ear. His beard scratched, leaving her skin raw and yet more deliciously alive than she had imagined it would. It was a consideration against him, his facial hair, when she imagined this, but she knew she couldn't plan for or around it. No man she'd been with before him had ever had a beard or mustache, let alone the well-groomed rug King maintained.

"What's next?" She whispered in his ear as his surprisingly soft lips moved down her neck. It was bizarre, the sensations on her throat: first, the abrasion of his beard, then the buffering softness of his lips, and, last, the rough wetness of his tongue. She giggled as he found a spot that tickled. Absurdly, she found herself saying, "We can talk more this way, I guess."

"Mmm," King said against her throat as she brought her hands down his sides to the hem of his shirt. "You really want me to do that?"

"Talk more than your usual, you mean?" She moved her fingers up under his shirt, over the hard muscle, reveling in the sleek skin running over them and shuddering. She had to touch him more. Ever since seeing him in the shower yesterday after their workout, she was bound and determined that _when this_ happened, she would run her mouth over those muscles, just to make sure they were real.

"Yeah," King murmured, blowing cool air over the wet trail he'd traced to the center of her throat.

"We don't talk, really." And this was true, even as she realized she didn't mind that fact much. King sat back to let her at his shirt, and, when it was up under his chin, his arms still caught in it, she rocked him backwards; he fell with a grunt, and she held him, arms tangled and face hidden. Walking herself down on his body, Abby bent down to his chest, stretching out over him like a cat, and flicked out her tongue. King froze, holding his breath as she, with more confidence, put her lips to the same spot.

"We really should," he faltered, "Should talk more, if this is what happens when we do."

"Mmm," she mouthed, sucking gently at the skin under her lips, feeling the slight resistance as it clung to the muscles just underneath. God, they _were_ real, and she giggled again.

"What?"

"Nothing," she dismissed, sticking her tongue out again to taste him. She worked her way down the center of his chest, dipping between the definite lines of each and every muscle group, all of which he kept tensing whenever she stopped, anticipating more.

Though he didn't fight her to get the rest of the way out of his shirt, King eventually worked up to asking, "Can I get out of this yet?" Abby hummed against his belly, enjoying herself, denying his request by ignoring it. It would be a cold day in Hell before she confessed as much to him, but her fantasies involved sucking on every inch of his body, so, maybe it was a good thing they weren't kissing. So many _better_ things to do with mouths.

"Whistler," he growled when her mouth reached his belly button. The tone was wrong, not aroused, but pained. He _was_ aroused, that she could feel poking up against her, but she shook her lust clear and sat on his legs, allowing him to free himself from his shirt.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, just I," King licked his lips anxiously. "I just didn't want..."

"King," she put a hand on his chest, right over where his heart was. "Talk."

"It's stupid," he shrugged, raising himself up to his elbows.

"Probably," she agreed. "Tell me anyway."

"While I appreciate the rest of that," he grinned at her, trailing off, but the mirth didn't reach his eyes. There was alarm there. Abby looked down at his stomach, biting her cheek to control herself, keep herself focused as she took him in. What? What was wrong?

Then it hit her. Her mouth hadn't been more than a few inches from the tattoo on his abdomen. She moved her hand over his pants to the spot where she knew it was. King swallowed heavily, giving himself away. Keeping his eyes locked with hers, she felt for the button and zipper there, tugging away the flaps of his pants and shrugging down the elastic of his boxers until the mark was exposed. She looked down at it, and it seemed to look back at her, daring her to cross that line.

"King," she said, voice heavy with intent. His gaze traveled up her body, eventually meeting her eyes again. "Watch me." Squirming, he did, and she felt his eyes on her as she lowered herself back to his body. Purposefully, she kissed the black marks as he shifted beneath her. She pulled back and spat on the mark, contemptuous of all it represented but not of him for having it. "There, all better."

It certainly seemed to be. In an instant, King was up again, long arms wrapped around her back, and he startled her by closing his mouth over hers. His tongue licked the roof of her mouth, around her sensitive gums, grappling with her tongue in her mouth with a fury that erased the hesitation and discomfort of only a moment earlier. They rolled back to the sheet, and she squeezed his hips with her thighs.

Gasping, she broke away, wanting nothing more than to laugh. "I thought we weren't kissing."

"I changed my mind. I do that," he chuckled, eyes twinkling with mischief as he sealed her mouth with his again.


	4. Satisfaction

_Fringe Benefits_

**Warning: This chapter includes an explicit sexual scene. Those who might be offended are advised to skip this chapter and move onto the next chapter. This chapter is a strong R.**

* * *

Gasping, she broke away, wanting nothing more than to laugh. "I thought we weren't kissing." 

"I changed my mind. I do that," he chuckled, eyes twinkling with mischief as he sealed her mouth with his again. She settled her arms around his neck, crossing them lightly at the wrists and enjoying herself a while before pushing bodily against him until he, obligingly, lay out on his back. While kissing and running her fingers down to where they wanted to go was fine for the immediate present, the very real problem of too many clothes began to impress upon her.

"King," she gasped, pulling away for air. He didn't stop, kept moving down her neck again, no help at all and entirely too distracting. It made the problem worse, not better. Frustrated, desperation building, she squirmed free of his embrace, shoving herself up and away as his hands slid to either side of her breasts. _That_ got his attention. "King."

"Yes, Abigail."

Possessed and triumphant, she rocked backwards on her heels, springing up with her hands at her ankles. She had chosen well for tonight, and she wanted him to know it, see it. But she was no longer content to draw this out. New urgency ran through her body, so she went for the practical. In one move, she drew her hands up the sides of her legs, thumb and index fingers pressing together around the metal of the zippers. King's jaw dropped open as the long unzipping continued straight up to her knees, and he choked off a cry when she _kept_ going. As the two sides of her crimson leather pants fell away, he found his voice again.

"Whistler, I'm beginning to suspect you planned this."

"Does that surprise you?"

He shook his head. "No, but I like it." His eyes stayed fixed on her legs, moving upwards, checking back with her from time to time to beg for permission. She granted it by allowing her mouth to tick up in the corner. When he reached her underwear, sheer black nylon mesh in a low-riding bikini-style cut, chosen as meticulously as the rest of her outfit, he let out a rush of breath. "Wow."

"Like what you see?"

"You'd know if I didn't."

"I bet," she worried her lip, some of the excitement wavering under his piercing examination. Seeming to sense this, he rolled up into a sitting position again. First, she gloried in the every twitch of those fabulous muscles of his, then she lost herself in the achingly tender touch of his rough fingers moving up her bare legs.

"You're not having second thoughts, are you?"

"Are you kidding?" She could not control her mouth; her body spoke for itself, stepping into his touch as his hands came up and around the elastic of her underwear, just below her waist. Her eyes fell closed as his lips came down on her abdomen, rough and hot tongue working at the soft skin above her underwear and below her belly button. The bizarre duality of sensations, the massage of his tongue and lips, the pricking of his beard, robbed her of breath. His thumbs hooked under the strings at the front of her bikinis. When he paused, she opened her eyes, glaring down her body at him.

Visibly surprised and wary of her expression, he pulled away. "I do something wrong?"

"Jesus, King," she rolled her eyes. He sounded _almost_ sincerely insecure. What was his problem? She was definitely giving him permission, and if he didn't take it, she'd have to take care of it herself. Holding his gaze, she hooked her fingers in the underwear elastic and looped it around each of his thumbs once. "Pull," she ordered.

"Yes, Abigail."

"And stop that."

The false modesty and fear fell away from his face. His eyebrows leveled, his mouth fixed itself in a determined line, his tongue poking out at the side, the study of concentration. His fingers slid under the fabric and around her hips until she could feel him curl them over the top of her underwear at the small of her back. Expertly, with the scant cloth tangled around his large hands, King eased her panties over the curve of her ass, accepting her assistance only once he'd dragged the material down as far as her knees. She daintily stepped out of one leg hole then the other. As she steadied herself onto two feet once more, she noticed he wasn't paying attention to her. Instead, he was staring at her discarded bottoms. On the inside of the black satin, a coral colored square of plastic shone even in the dark warehouse.

"You really come prepared." There was awe in his tone, and it excited her, frustrated her even more with his distraction. Now was _not_ the time to admire anything that wasn't her.

"I don't do anything half-way," she agreed, grabbing his chin and directing his attention where she wanted it. Obediently, he came up onto his knees, hands braced on her hips.

"Thank God for that," King said before leaning forward into her center. The shock of sensation rendered her temporarily mute. Her brain could only barely register the gasps and strange gurgles of air escaping her throat. The noises she made amused him, and the tremor of his chuckles against her sensitive folds aroused like nothing else.

"Mmm," was the first semi-coherent thing she could manage after a full minute of reveling in the teasing, maddening rhythm of his hungry, invading, questing tongue. Her body tensed as his hands cupped her ass, kneeding into her flesh roughly as she thrust her pelvis forward into his face. His head dropped back, panting.

"Need...to...breathe..."

"Sorry," she giggled, twining her fingers into his thick hair.

"I'm not," King wheezed, darting towards her at the same time he pressed her forward with heavy hands on her ass. As best she could, Abby kept up her scalp massage as his mouth devoured her, his fingers spreading her wide for better access. Erratically, she ran her hands down the back of his head, clawing at the knot of muscles there and keeping herself from flying apart by focusing on the feel of him, so alive, under her fingertips.

Time dilated and expanded forever, no longer existing as she guided him and he responded. No words were necessary; the bodily clues were enough. His mouth was occupied, and she wasn't much of a talker anyway. Idly, between electric peaks, she tried to remember the last time a man had done this for her. Years, maybe, back before she got into this business for real. The last one--what was his name?--hadn't ever gone down on her. None had ever done it with her _standing_, and her appreciation for King's not inconsiderable talent skyrocketed as she enjoyed the new position. Then again, a man who gave his mouth that much exercise had to have the game to back up the talk.

A heavy groan escaped her, rising up from her gut and slipping out of her seized windpipe. Frantic, she could not move enough to alleviate the tension, so she stayed still, freezing up. Not enough, not enough. Then, one hundred and eighty degrees in the opposite direction, it was too much, too much.

"_Goddamn_!" Perhaps not the most delicate way of phrasing the warmth that seized her, overtook her, overwhelmed her, but it didn't even begin to touch how she really felt. _That_ was what she'd been lacking, among other things. But, as the blood surged and her chest heaved, while her eyes blinked away rushes and swirls of color in the dingy warehouse, Abby was acutely aware of a need still unsatisfied. She staggered away, seeing King smiling, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

Just as he took a breath, no doubt to make some wise-ass remark, Abby came back to herself, the need crystallized, and the solution presented itself. King got off an, "I--_oomph_," before she tackled him, lips coming down on his, tongue in his mouth as they fell against the sheet. His response was instantaneous, hands grasping and squeezing her waist, thumbs rubbing the sensitive skin of her stomach and working upwards, tickling her ribs beneath her top. Gracelessly yet expertly, he pinched her nipples over the fabric, but she stopped him when he tried to remove it.

"No time," she snarled, groping around without looking for her underwear. There was no time. Condom, now, now, now, her body screamed, each rub of her hips against his feeding her haste.

King looked up at her, tucking one strand of her hair behind her ear. The innocent expression on his face, the strangely intimate gesture, jarred her from her urgency. His darkened, dilated eyes searched her face, enjoying her confusion and pause. "Looking for this?" Her eyes flicked to his free arm, bent up at the elbow. The pink square package that had been tucked in her underwear was pinched between his index and middle fingers. She tried to snatch it away, but he held his arm out, the condom out of reach.

Astounded, infuriated, Abby gaped at his easy, contented smirk. How could he be so calm? "You want to get laid or _not_?"

"Is _that_ a loaded question," King drawled, lifting his hips upwards as an answer her question. Then what was the problem? Dumbfounded, she stared as he caught her hand with his, depositing the condom into it. She had to lean forward a bit more, and he raised his head to kiss her soundly. Stupidly, she stared at him when he released her lips. "You may resume where you left off, Miss Abigail." His eyebrows jumped suggestively, and, suddenly, it made sense. _Ah_. Clasping the precious package, she walked down his body again, reacquainting herself with and rekindling her appetite for the body beneath her. Here and there, she nipped at him, this time tasting the fine layer of sweat coating his body. "Whistler," he moaned, as she dipped her tongue into his belly button and rubbed his nipples with her thumbs. More tongue, more taste, more moans. A positive feedback loop of desire.

Without realizing it, she hit the elastic of his boxers with the back of her tongue, moving down from his abdomen. Angrily, she sat back on her heels, tapping her fingers on her hips. "King."

"Yes?" His eyes were obsidian, deep, intent. Anything she said, he'd do.

Wantonly, she traced the solid cut of muscles above his pelvis, thumbs continuing the trek over the fabric of his pants and boxers, fingers curling over the elastic. She tugged on it playfully a couple of times as she worked at his body with her thumbs. He licked his lower lip, his expression clouded and anticipatory. "Up," she murmured, eyes flashing, and up his hips came; she jerked his boxers and pants down together. Freed, his erection bobbed, promisingly, waking still more desire. Perfunctorily, she tore the condom's seal with her teeth and one hand, the other closing over him, teasing him.

Barely in control, she managed, somehow, to work the condom on, unrolling it down his shaft. Nodding, satisfied with her work, Abby recognized control abandoning her entirely.

"Like what you see?" In the dark, his eyes twinkled. With all cares thrown entirely to the wind, she dove for him, taking him into her, bracing herself against his bent knees.

"You'll know if I don't."


	5. The Big Come Down?

_Fringe Benefits-5: The Big Come Down?_

* * *

"Sweet Jesus," he sighed, happily, body still tingling with the force of his release. God, it was going to be worth the aftermath, the rejection, just to have had this once--twice for her. Whistler seemed to share his opinion, luxurious and languorous as she came down from her climax and spread herself out over him. 

"God, I needed that," she panted, her breath chasing over the flushed skin of his chest, making him shiver. He could see her smile, and that was a slice of heaven or a glimpse of hell. She glanced up at him. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," he said, smugly. "I'm glad you had a good time."

"Hmm?" She murmured, almost sleepily, yawning. "Didn't you?"

"How to put this? If you, uh, don't back off in the next five-ten minutes, you're in for a repeat performance." Well, why the hell not? He checked his watch; they still had time.

Unfortunately, that motion attracted Abby's attention, and she sat bolt upright, swinging her leg around him, dismounting roughly and reaching for her underwear in one motion. Oh, well, he still had the once. Reluctantly, King resigned himself to it, that glorious, bittersweet victory and the certainty of a celibate future, at least as far as Abigail Whistler was concerned. Lifting his ass off the sweaty, clingy flannel, he tugged his boxers and pants up together, not able to keep a smile off his face; they hadn't even gotten below his knees before she pounced him. _So_ worth it.

"I like that trick with the condom," he commented, sitting up and resting his arms loosely atop his knees. He nodded at her underwear, which she slid up those awesome legs, standing on one foot at a time.

"It was the only place I could think to put it."

"They have this marvelous invention called pockets, Abby," he patted his own, where he had, just in case, stuck one or two condoms.

"I wanted to be sure," she said, coolly, slipping her bra straps back up onto her shoulders. They made for an oddly matched pair of lovers: her pants made it off, his didn't; his shirt got tossed aside, hers stayed on, if just barely.

"Of what?"

"That you wouldn't find it unless we needed it."

What else could he say to that, except, "Damn."

She actually smiled as she pulled back her hair. "Glad you liked it."

"You made an impression," he conceded, standing with his shirt fisted in one hand. In another second, they were both dressed again, as he tugged his shirt back on and she zipped herself back into her leather pants. Already, he knew he would be fantasizing about unzipping those for the next few years of his life. Not enough of his problematic hookups featured leather--in the good way.

Surprisingly, there was no lingering awkwardness. It was as if Whistler knew exactly what he was expecting, which was exactly what she intended, which boiled down to this being a one-time deal. They folded the sheet up into a long strip and beat the floor together to erase their tracks in it, Abby continuing the chore down the stairs while he grabbed their gear and fished for the keys.

Abby waited, leaning against the hood of the jeep, as he loaded their gear in the trunk. She tapped her foot rhythmically, and, through the car, he could see the white cords extending from her ear buds. Already back to normal. Nothing changed between them besides some fluids wrapped up in latex.

"Come on, jitterbug," he called to her, coming around the driver's side door. Abby glanced over her shoulder at him, smirking. King watched her roll towards the passenger's side, hand lingering and drawing long streaks across the front end. He ought to remind her about leaving prints, but the look she gave him was too damned hot for logic to function through the hormones. Eyebrows raised, he waited until she belted in, and when the delay in their departure got her attention, said, "Wow."

"Yeah?"

"What are you on?"

Abby shut her eyes, head swaying to the tune. Her hand shot out of nowhere, grabbing the dead center of his cargo pants and rubbing in rhythm to music he couldn't hear. "Something other than my left hand, for a change." Her voice was throaty, deep, and she didn't stop touching him.

"Never figured you for a lefty," he shot back, chuckling, astounded. Strong and stoic Whistler, she of many a masturbatory fantasy, playing with his responsive cock, telling him about her frustration with a hand that was doing all right by him. "Is it legal to drive like this, do you think?"

"Is it legal to kill four men--"

"Five," he groaned, inanely picking a fight while she worked her hand inside his pants. "I got five."

"Really," she licked her lips, eyes still closed, her body writhing to the tunes being pumped into her brain. Her fingers found what they were seeking, closing over him. King fought to breathe as, even in the constrained space, she brought him to life. Leaning closer to him, breathing in his ear, Abby teased him, "How many, King?"

"Four," he said at once. He wasn't stupid, but, he _was, _of all things, suddenly very optimistic about his immediate future. His mouth felt dry as he croaked, "Does this mean we're not pretending this didn't happen?"

"Drive," she whispered. Catching her expression from the corner of his eye nearly undid him. Danica, on her best day, never looked that dangerous. There was a fine line between love and hate, but he'd always found it pretty easy to stay on the right side of that line--it was all a matter of pushing too far versus pushing just enough. Her fingers slid up from his body, teasing the head of his cock, manipulating the skin around it, causing him to groan again. Abby licked the skin below his earlobe. "Drive, King."

He started the car.


	6. Two for the Price of One

_Fringe Benefits 6: Two for the Price of One_

* * *

"Everything go all right?" Dex met them out on the deck, taking the gear bag that King let fall from his shoulder. Abby bit down a smile as King walked right by Dex and into the base. "What's with him?" 

"Danica Talos," Abby shrugged. Thinking about business killed her buzz. Still, he deserved to know what had come of this evening's hunt as it pertained to his safety. "She sent the familiars around the dock area."

"That's too close to here for comfort," Dex frowned, watching King's retreating back. "How'd he do?"

"Four of nine, not bad," Abby managed with a straight face. She'd made him say it on the drive home, over and over. _How many, King? _And every time, as if his life depended on it, he'd said, _Four_. Perhaps it was cruel, and she could not deny a slight annoyance that he had, after only six months with the Nightstalkers, matched himself pretty equally to her talent. Half of the kills were his, if they split the last one, and, if not, almost half. Not bad, indeed, for a man who had been vampire candy half a year ago.

"Abby?" Sommerfield waved to her as she stepped inside. Dex took the gear to Hedges for clean up. Thankfully, the sheet was still in the car. She'd have to think of an excuse to retrieve it later, or burn it. At this point, she suspected the sheet was beyond reuse, what with the pounding it had taken and the clean up at the warehouse...and in the car.

"Sommer," Abby placed a hand on Sommer's shoulder to let the blind woman know where she was. "What's up?"

"Everything go okay? You're late."

Abby groused, "We stopped at McDonald's." King's love of fast-food was infamous, as was her jealousy of his metabolism. It made for a handy excuse, accounting for the warehouse and the quick pull over King made onto the emergency shoulder on the way home.

"Is King okay? Did he perform all right?"

Abby's jaw dropped; though she recovered quickly, some days, she was grateful that her otherwise uncannily astute friend was blind. "Yeah, I was telling Dex. King got four."

"You learn anything?" Abby sighed. She wanted a shower, wanted to wash off the dust and sweat, and crash after such an exhausting evening. Hearing the weariness in her voice, Sommer patted her hand. "Not good news, I take it."

"They were looking for him."

"King?"

"Yeah. They didn't recognize him."

"I bet not," Sommer smiled, her eyebrows raising. "I don't recognize him. When he came in here, he sounded like a half-drugged cat and he felt so skinny." Sommer remembered details from her other senses better than the rest of them could ever do with their eyes. "Now, well, I couldn't be prouder of my patient. He's feeling so much healthier. Not sure if I like the beard, though," Sommer sniffed. Self-conscious of herself and her smell giving away her recent activities, Abby backed away to lean against Sommer's computer bench.

"It's not that bad."

"You don't mind then, hmm?" Sommer's one eyebrow stayed high over her sunglasses, the other sunk low. _Busted_, Abby knew it. "If there's nothing else you learned from the docks..."

"Not really," Abby said, certain. "They ID'd King from the kid at Starbucks, and he's dead."

"The one who pinched your ass that time?"

"Mommy," Zoe called from the floor, startling Abby. She hadn't even seen Zoe there, coloring while her mother worked.

"Sorry, Zoe," Sommer apologized. "Sometimes Mommy forgets, too." Around Zoe, they tried to keep the language clean, something that had been rather difficult when King first arrived and was being treated with the cure. She cleared her throat. "Sorry, the kid at Starbucks?"

"Yeah, don't know how they turned that into the docks. Maybe they followed us."

"Doubtful, or we'd have been seeing more of them."

"Something he let slip, then," Abby suggested. That was her other theory. The dockyard was along the river, just as the base was, only it was closer to the shore, where it saw more commercial boat traffic. If the vamps were sniffing around there, they might have a clue about their base being along the river and assume the Nightstalkers were at the docks instead of thirty-forty miles inland. "Think we should pack up, move on?"

"Maybe," Sommerfield frowned. "I'd hate to give up this place, though. It's been a godsend for working on Daystar. Much more bench space than we could afford in the city."

"More mobility, more anonymity," Abby agreed. "Okay, we'll wait then. See what Danica tries next."

Sommerfield, guided by her voice, reached out and felt along Abby's arm until she could give her hand a squeeze. "Why don't you go get a shower? You've earned it." Sommerfield stood, leaning close, barely moving her mouth when next she spoke. "You need it, too." And then she was gone, scooping up Zoe and her cane, headed off to bedtime-story land.

Agape, Abby fought a disbelieving, breathless laugh as Hedges came around the corner, tousling Zoe's hair as the kid passed. Putting on her best serious face, she nodded in greeting. "Yes?"

"Anything else we need for tonight?"

"Don't think so, Hedges. I'll come clean and calibrate my bow after I get a shower."

Hedges waved at her. "Angel, you touch that thing again, and I'll recalibrate your allowance." Their budget being solely built on the funds plundered from the vampires and familiars they destroyed, that was a valid threat. "It's fine the way it is. I wish you'd stop playing with it," he whined. He got so touchy about his handiwork.

"I need it to be _perfect_, Hedges."

"Nothing I design is anything less than perfect, my dear." Hedges stuck his hands in his pockets. "So, if you're going to be up, and, as I've freed you from hours spent worthlessly toiling against perfection, wanna catch a quick _Halo_ match?"

Abby grinned. "Maybe another time, Hedges. Try hustling Dex. You can't beat him at anything else."

"Ah, ah, ah," Hedges waggled a finger at her. "That's stereotyping right there. Just because I'm a geek doesn't mean I can't kick ass with the best of them." When he turned, Abby lunged, grabbing his arm and forcing it up his back as she pressed him to the wall. "Ah," he said, swallowing hard, once. "I stand corrected."

"I have not even begun to fight, Hedges," Abby reached around with her free hand to wiggle her fingers lightly over his belly; Hedges was hopelessly ticklish. "Beg for mercy, Hedges."

"Mercy! I give! I give!" Hedges gulped between fits of unmanly giggles. She released him, accepting a gracious high and low five as she strode past, hips swinging exaggeratedly for his benefit. They might never be more than friends, but she treated him now and then. She took off for the showers at the aft end of the base, keenly aware of the sounds of water running. King was still cleaning up.

She had two choices: one, wait until he was finished, which, given how long he took in the shower, would mean hanging around in her dried sweat smell for another half hour; or, two, join him in the communal shower and glare at him to ensure he behaved himself or left prematurely. She decided on the latter course.

"Whistler," he nodded to her as she stepped through the curtain.

And into one of her fantasies. Her favorite one, too, the one with water. She'd noticed it before, how uninhibited- dare she say _innocent?_ -he seemed in the shower. Three of them might be in there at once, and King wouldn't have known it. He showered with his eyes closed, face full tilt into the pounding spray. Too many years without had left him enamored with the simple pleasure of hot water streaming out of a showerhead with a massage setting. Water beat down on his hair, streaming along his head in waves and ripples and falling over the rise of his shoulders down the curve of his spine, into the hollow of his lower back, and on and on. He was too tall-there was just too much of him for the water to touch.

Was _she_ a goner. Vaguely, she felt stung, displeased with herself; tonight was supposed to be about quenching a desire, exploring a curiosity, and closing the book on it. Then why did she lick her lip to taste a droplet there, wishing it was the one clinging to those short hairs at the nape of his neck? Privacy would have to be damned, if her body's reaction was any indication; King was a habit that would not be prematurely denied. So much for her plans. Unless maybe, just maybe, Hedges had corralled Dex into a game. They'd be at it for hours, cursing, whooping, blasting the crap out of each other. Maybe.

Maybe, her flaring libido decided, was good enough.


	7. Repeat Performance

Nothing any of the other crew had said made it past the euphoria so dense it fogged in all his wondrous disbelief. Never, never ever had he gone for one of _those_ women and not been royally fucked, and not just literally. Sex with Abigail Whistler ought to have ended in his being brushed off while he was still interested, tormented by the pleasure he could never again have, _or_ it should have been awkward and dragged on too long, long past his interest's death-like sex with Danica after a while.

No way had he gotten laid then driven home with Whistler's mouth around his dick. And no way, _no way_, was she coming into the shower now for anything other than hygiene. So used to the do-it-and-done-with-it reaction, he thought nothing of Abby turning on another shower head and joining him the shower. Despite her post-coital attentions, the lingering peace between them lasted. Sexual tension lost some of its power when the desire was satisfied. The brush-off burn wouldn't start to ache until tomorrow morning.

"Whistler," he greeted her, shaking his head under the water, rubbing at the suds with his knuckles. It just wasn't the same. His scalp itched something fierce, as though it was trying to crawl off his head-as if, now that it remembered the nails of a woman, it would never accept his again.

"King."

He stiffened. That had come from somewhere near his shoulder blades, where, his brain worked out, Abby's mouth would be if she were standing right behind him. But, of course, that would mean she would have to be standing behind him, _close_ behind him, and that ship had sailed. Hadn't it?

Then, there! Dear. God. Lithe fingers worked through his sodden hair, grasping at the roots and tugging gently, then nails raked over his scalp, massaging all the way down to his neck and up again. The Abby who was not, in fact, naked and nearby, pressed her body against his back. The slickness of the contact made him shudder and smile.

"Whistler."

"What?" Her fingers still worked their magic, descending from the nape of his neck over his arms.

"You sure you know what you're doing?" The way this ends, he knew, was she got bored or he did, she got hurt or he did, usually by being left wanting more. And he wanted _more_. Her body was flush against his back, from the round softness of her breasts-that was new-to the silky firmness of her belly-that was old, but still welcome. Still, _more_. He needed more, wanted more. If she came at him like this, he was going to _take_ more.

Her lips were on his shoulder; she sprayed water into his ear as she leaned up to be heard over the spray of water. "You have a problem with what I'm doing?"

"Do I look like a complete idiot?" Turning his head, King shot her his best shit-eating grin. "Don't answer that."

"Afraid of the truth?"

"Afraid of being smart." Because, if he was right, he was shit out of luck. He hadn't had much luck with women in his life, not for years, thanks to one very special little lady. Maybe this was payback. Time to start liking the underdog's chances. He turned to face her. Without her shoes, she lost a little height on him, so a kiss was a stretch. But after the sprains that kissing Danica had given him, a few inches was nothing. Not when it brought that body, fully exposed to his for the first time, into contact with his.

And, of course, it helped when she jumped up onto his hips, grasping him around the waist with those to-die-for thighs. He slipped, landing hard on one hand and his ass. No time to break the kiss, their teeth clicked together when they fell. Abby tossed her head back and giggled, a bubbly, gargling sound thanks to the shower. He rubbed his teeth, sore and amazed.

"You okay?" She asked, recovering from her laughing fit enough to look him over with a serious eye, exactly what, with her naked body wrapped around his, he didn't want.

"Fine, fine. I'm used to bruises. Love 'em. Have a collection, actually. I'm going to name this one after you, Abby," he rubbed at his lower back and wincing.

"Lucky me," she said, closing in on him again.

* * *

"Come on, Dex, I'll give you a handicap. Three second head start, your choice of map, weapons, teammates...come on, you can't get better than that." 

"Fine, but capture the flag only. Nothing long and drawn out, man," Dex caved. Sommerfield perked up, grinning to herself.

"What's funny, Mom?"

"Yeah, Sommerfield, what's funny?" Dex sounded defensive.

"Nothing, just listening to you whining," Sommerfield chuckled. "Go play video games, boys. And, Hedges?"

"Yes'm?"

"Don't beat him too badly. He sulks for days when he loses."

Hedges sputtered, "But I'm giving him..."

"Don't start. You could play that game using your tongue and you'd still beat him."

"Would you like to see what else I've mastered using my tongue?"

"Hedges," she warned, putting an arm around Zoe. She heard Hedges shuffling away, beating a hasty retreat. At her side, Zoe leaned into her, encouraging her to continue reading. "One moment, baby," she cooed to her daughter. Zoe understood, settling against her quietly while she listened, concentrating on the entire base at once.

It was an instinctual thing, like checking the locks on the door before going to sleep. She periodically checked on the sounds and smells of the base. With each of their little group distracted in one way or another, they might not see what she could sense coming first. When things were quiet, which was rare, she listened to reassure herself all was well. In one direction was the clicking of the clunky heater, rich with an greasy thick scent; she'd never get used to oil-based heat. In another, the groaning of the pipes feeding water into the shower room. She hid a smile at that last one.

"Come on, Dex, you said you would!" Came Hedges' voice, elevated but distant, maybe a hundred feet from where she sat with Zoe. Dex's answering rumble was lost in the roar of the game starting up and the ensuing blares of gunfire. Nothing out of the ordinary, especially not when Dex's curses carried over the din. Zoe immediately clapped her hands over her ears and burrowed into Sommerfield's lap.

"Dexter Reagan, you watch your mouth!"

"Sorry, Sommer! Won't happen again!" There was a solid second before he broke his promise. Hedges crowed, and Dex came back with, "Fuck you, geek!"

"Dex!"

"Mom, don't listen," Zoe said, calmly. Sometimes, she forgot that Zoe took to bad language better than she did. Bad language you couldn't always help, she'd said, and Zoe did her best to filter out what she could. It was a little scary, this grown-up child she had raised.

"I know, Zoe, but you know I can't help it," she smiled. The raucous video gaming would go on for hours, and she could hardly police their language the whole time. Zoe and she had only a few more _Curious Georges _to get through before she graduated up to some of her childhood favorites, the _Oz_ books next, maybe _The_ _Chronicles of Narnia _after that. "Now, where were we?"

"He swallowed the puzzle piece," Zoe informed her, helpfully.

"Right," her fingers drifted over the raised Braille words, taking them in as Zoe did the pictures.

With her reading aloud and tensions mounting over kill ratios and the like in the common area, only her ears detected the white noise of the showers running for well over an hour. Running and running and running. She raised her voice, consciously ignoring sounds she knew she alone could hear. Abby would owe her in the morning.


	8. Something Ventured, Something Gained

1Sputtering when water went down the wrong way, Abby clung to King's shoulders as the last of their spasms passed. Her inner thighs burned, and her body throbbed coming down for the second time this session, what she knew would have to be the last for the evening, or she would just die. King's head dropped backwards, smacking on the window behind the curtain.

"Woo-hoo," he cheered, weakly.

"I'm inclined to agree," she shifted in his lap, trying to get comfortable without separating. "I'm glad you told me about those pocket-things."

"The pocket is a miracle of modern science," King approved. "I didn't have the option of stuffing rubbers in my underwear like some people." She guessed he didn't; he wore boxers. He pinched her side; she slapped away his hand. "It might have fallen out on our little jaunt this evening. I can just imagine explaining the birds and the bees to this crowd."

"Zoe knows already. Sommer tells her everything."

"I was talking about Hedges."

"Jerk," she huffed, unhappily. She let her gaze drop to where her fingers, of their own accord, played with the pendant on his necklace. Thinking about Hedges woke her unpleasantly from her hormonal delusion that they would be able to keep this rendezvous quiet.

King grabbed her chin between thumb and forefinger, lifting her head up. "What's up?"

His expression was earnest enough to merit a confession. "I think I've blown it as far as secrecy goes."

"We were shooting for secret?" He was silent for a moment. "You mean you planned out the warehouse stunt because you didn't want the others to know."

"Yeah, a bit."

"Because we're not supposed to?"

"No, not that."

Her father had always been - rather hypocritically - against mixing business and pleasure. Sommer and Dex were in violation of that policy, but such things weren't taboo among the Nightstalkers. However, she doubted, even with King's forgiving sense of humor, he would appreciate the truth.

"Because I didn't want this to be awkward." It was as good as she could articulate the feeling without being hurtful.

"What part of this is awkward?" King smirked. The knowing tilt to one of his eyebrows irritated her. How could he possibly have known? "Or maybe you're just worried about the locker-room talk."

"It hadn't crossed my mind," she lied, lips thinned with the effort to refrain from choking him. "You do talk a _lot_."

"You don't think I'd have something nice to say about you?" King feigned hurt. "My mother always said that if you can't say something nice…see where I'm going with this?"

She didn't have a comeback for that, which left them in a protracted pause, filled only with the steady drum of water from the dutiful showerhead.

"So," King's mouth filled the vacuum, "just how much are you afraid of Hedges and Dex anyway?"

"Huh?" She leaned back to look him in the eye, surprised to find the warm honey-brown orbs completely lacking any artifice or mockery. His words might have been intended to provoke, but the intent was utterly sincere. "Oh."

"That bad, huh?"

"No. I mean, it's not like-"

"It's okay, I get it. I'm used to women with terminal senses of humor. You don't like being teased. I get it. I've learned to be good about that."

The words were jovial, the implications macabre. Abby pulled back, glancing down at his glyph tattoo, marring the skin just above where their bodies met.

"Do you still think about her?" It took more guts to ask the question than it had to make the first move this evening.

"Danica?"

"Yeah." She ran the pad of her index finger over the mark, stubbornly annoyed when it didn't wipe away. He didn't even react to the touch, and she wanted to laugh; so much progress made in such a short time.

"Sure. Not in the past few hours though, if you were wondering."

The invitation for her to find fault, to chide or to scold, his cure-all for the serious talk, was strangely endearing. Unlike her, he _liked_ teasing. It gave him an excuse to show off. But she wasn't taking the bait that easily.

"What about when you saw the familiars tonight?"

A shadow, a flicker of untruth crossed his blandly honest expression before it solidified into flippant defiance.

"Whistler, all I care about is I took out five bad guys tonight."

"_Four_," she snapped, tweaking his nipples as punishment.

"Hey!" He twisted her arms behind her back, closing his hands over hers to protect himself. "That smarts."

"Then behave."

"I was. Whose fault is it you went psycho hormonal on me after swatting a few familiars?" She gritted her teeth as he wagged his eyebrows in an exaggerated leer. "I must be getting pretty good if you're watching my ass that close."

"And who do we have to thank for that?"

"Dex."

"King."

"Well, Hedges helped, too. A little."

"_King_."

"I'm just giving credit where credit's due. I should write the eight-minute abs people a thank-you note."

He broke her, finally, and she chuckled, unable to help herself. He took the opportunity to steal a kiss, releasing her hands so he could wrap his arms around her back. She leaned into him, sucking lazily at his lips.

Foreheads touching, she nudged him with her nose.

"Is this awkward?"

"Look at us, Abby." She looked and liked what she saw, and King noticed, too. "Am I really going to say, 'yes,' to that?"

She rolled her eyes, but seeing as she'd gotten her answer anyway, she let it slide. Fighting lax muscles, she pulled herself up to her feet, extending her hand to him.

"Up, big guy."

He smiled at her, at her choice of words - they already had their own language of meaning as lovers. King accepted her help, seeming as unwilling to move as she. Towering above her again, he hugged her.

"This awkward?" He asked in her ear.

"No, actually," and that was a surprise. It might be later, when they'd had enough time to get comfortable and, as a direct result, take each other for granted, but not yet.

"Why is that?" She wondered aloud.

"It's a sexual tension thing, cutie-pie. Same reason to give yourself a little manual polish now and then. No sex, loads of tension. Look at Hedges. That guy's two blow-jobs short of a Chernobyl."

She chuckled against his body, wishing she could stop. It wasn't kind, his humor, though she knew there was no heat or rancor against their favorite weapons jockey. Still, it hit a little too close to the truth, and, desperate though he might be, Hedges was still her friend.

"You must have been close to dying then. It's been, what, six months?"

"You're fooling if you think I've been a priest since Danica, Whistler." He scratched the thick hair at his jaw. "How d'ya think I grew this out in a week?"

"Hair club for men."

"Cute. Testosterone. See, jerking off doesn't give you hairy palms or shit like that, but it does grow it other places." When she stared, mouth ever-so-slight agape at this, he nodded emphatically. "True story."

She blinked up at him. "I hope the things you say make sense to you, at least."

"Not really," he admitted, unconcernedly. "I mostly get them out so I can think clearly."

"I thought you 'released tension' for that reason."

"It's very cluttered up here." He tapped his temple. "Must be the high altitude."

She stepped aside, turning off the tap and leaving him in the last few drops as the shower died. They each toweled off more or less as they'd done after a few other strenuous hunts or workout sessions, each blithely aware but indifferent of the other. King had a marked immodesty when it came to nudity, not altogether undeserved given his dimensions, whereas her comfort derived from practicality trumping privacy. The Nightstalkers were going to be together for a long time, so what did it matter who saw whose tit in the shower?

Still, if whatever resumed peace between her and King were to last – and for the sake of concentration, she needed it to – how were they to behave? Same old, same old?

"So, how do we do this?"

"Do what?" King asked, head bent over while he roughly ground a stark white cotton towel into his short hair. He emerged from the scrubbing with little peaks of hair sticking out in all directions from his scalp, looking very adorably like a puppy that'd just shaken himself dry.

"Us."

"We're a _we_?"

"I might need to get laid again, yes," was all she would give him. She crossed her arms to draw the line; he read the body language, saw the boundary, and, for once, did not step over it.

"Don't think it'll be a problem, much," he jerked his head to the side hard enough to dislodge his brain, wiping at his ear to get at the water sloshing around inside.

"Why is that?"

"For one thing, you make it _very_ clear when you want a little action, Abby." He ogled her appreciatively, smirking when she yanked her towel up in response. "There're guys three miles away still sniffing out the estrogen and humping the door to the ladies' room."

She grunted, unimpressed, reddening with embarrassment. "You're saying that as long as there's no question I want to fuck, it all works out."

"Pretty much."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"How do I know if you want to get laid?" It seemed a fair question. He nattered on about sex incessantly, but up until she found his lips meeting hers halfway in that first kiss, she hadn't had any clue he'd been serious about having it with her.

King pursed his lips, his expression one of intense and almost certainly false contemplation. The cocky swagger of his relaxed motions as he ran his towel over the muscles of his back gave him away.

"I'll let you in on a little secret, Whistler."

"Yeah, what's that?"

"If I'm breathing, chances are good I want to get laid."

"I'll keep that in mind," she dismissed him, wrapping her towel up and over her breasts, folding it under her armpit to keep it tight against her body. King sighed dramatically, casting faux wistful glances at her until she couldn't see them. She _could_, however, feel his eyes on her ass as she left the shower room.

"Hey, Whistler!"

She crooked her head to glance over her shoulder. His grin would have glowed in the dark.

"How many was that again?"

Almost immediately, she blurted out, "Four!" before she realized what he meant. Damn him, it _had_ been four.

"Come again?" Now he was chuckling at his own stupid pun, and she seethed, wishing nothing more than to haul off and hurt him. No wonder Danica hated his fucking guts so much.

Before she could answer or head back for the slaughter, Dex stalked by her, shoulders raised and rigid, Hedges' catcalls echoing from far off. He gave her an uncertain, skeptical raised eyebrow, but retreated without comment.

Instead of a verbal reply, she held up four fingers in King's direction, pinching her thumb behind her palm. He nodded, supremely pleased with himself until she folded down three of her fingers, hiding all but the important one.


End file.
